


Hier steh ich an den Marken meiner Tage

by MonstrousRegiment



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, WWII AU, spies and liaisons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:29:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr is a spy in the SS, and his British liaison is strategist Charles Xavier. Their relationship from the moment they meet to a year after the end of the war. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“You’re the only person in the world who knows what I am.” </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hier steh ich an den Marken meiner Tage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zimothy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimothy/gifts).



> This started out as a small but nice ask-fic for Zimothy because she wanted some that day. It, somehow, evolved into a 12 part fic of 19.000 words. To say I overindulged is to put it mildly. 
> 
> Because this started as a game and only later evolved into something serious, the research is not up to my usual standards. For this I apologize. 
> 
> For the rest, I am shameless. 
> 
> The title _Hier steh ich an den Marken meiner Tage_ means 'Here I Stand at the Mile-Stone of my Days', and it's what is written in Marlene Dietrich's tombstone. Dietrich was a lovely German singer and actress who was absolutely against the Nazi regime, and did a lot of campaigning with the Allies, and was actually the first one to support war bonds. Look her up; her story is inspiring.
> 
> ETA: A reader has just kindly informed me that the quote is from a poem by Theodor Körner, _A Farewell to Life_ or, in German, _Abschied vom Leben_.

Hier steh ich an den Marken meiner Tage – Here I stand at the Mile-Stone of My Days

He spoke German, of course. He even sounded native—he had a slightly strange accent, but it could easily be attributed to one or other far-away region. Germany was coalesced by so many different people, the language shifted a little within its borders. Erik’s own accent was a little off, and he had been born in Germany, if up against the Swiss border. 

His eyes were certainly blue enough to be Arian, his skin dove-white pale, even if his hair was dark. 

It was, Erik thought, the way he moved that was rather peculiar. He had a militarized air, certainly, but not the movements of a soldier. 

“Strategist,” the boy-man answered when he asked. “Although I did go through boot-camp.” 

“That’s reassuring,” Erik released smoke through slightly parted lips, eyes fixed on the boy’s shockingly blue eyes. “You’ll know to run when they find you out.” 

“There’s no need for that,” the boy chided, not amused, composed as an Englishman can never fail to be. “I have been running in and out of the line for months, and I haven’t yet been caught.” 

“You will as soon as they hear that accent of yours.” 

“I don’t speak English openly, Mr. Klein. Now to the point, if you may?”

There was something there—something in the boy’s too-blue eyes, almost turquoise, on his masculine yet soft jawline, in his too-long slender neck. 

“How do you not draw everyone’s eyes right away? You’re certainly not inconspicuous. Spies don’t have your eyes.” 

“I don’t look many people in the eye,” the strategist looked slightly exasperated now. “Do my looks really bother you this much, Mr. Klein?” 

_Not in the least_ , Erik thought, and smiled like a wound. Oxford was the kind of boyish man someone like Erik would enjoy drawing in, playing with. But Oxford was also an English strategist deep behind enemy lines, and he was Erik’s contact with the British army, so there would be no playing about. 

Even if his eyes were alluringly blue, and his lips too full for a man, and he had precisely the kind of throat Erik liked to bite. 

Effeminate, however, was not the word Erik would apply to him. 

“About Bastogne,” he started, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray and looking around the damp basement. Oxford wrote with quick, sure lines and translated everything into coded gibberish as easily as he breathed, clearly adding his own notations and observations to Erik’s. 

“Why send you and not some nameless soldier?” Erik asked when they were done, before he opened the door and they parted ways. 

“I don’t send someone to do something I won’t do myself,” Oxford replied, blue eyes stark against his pale skin, lips too red, too red. 

Erik nodded wordlessly and took the street in the opposite direction. 

+++

They met again two weeks later, and there was a new wound over Oxford’s right eyebrow, deep enough that it would leave a scar. It suited him, Erik thought. 

“It makes you recognizable,” Erik said, gesturing at the scar with the tip of his lit cigarette. “Identifiable marks like that don’t suit a spy.” 

“We’re at war,” Oxford leveled him with a steady look. He was too serious and severe to be this young. He couldn’t possibly be over thirty years old. 

It was always the young ones, Erik mused silently, thinking of the other four contacts he’d had before this boy, thinking of their unburied bodies lying helpless waiting to be the feast of vultures. 

Oxford was still speaking, cultured accent clipped and firm. “Wounds and scars are an everyday thing now.” 

“Won’t your lover mourn your pretty face?” Erik asked, grinning like a crocodile. 

“She’s a nurse in a hospital,” Oxford answered distractedly, looking down at his notes. “I’m certain she knows how to cope with scars.” 

“What’s her name?” Erik asked, smoke drifting from his nostrils. 

Oxford pinned him with his eyes. 

“She doesn’t have one.” 

Erik grinned, letting his head roll back and reaching up to open the fastening of his uniform collar, relaxing into the chair. 

“You’re too serious, my boy. Life is short.”

“Shorter for some,” Oxford said quietly, lifting his head to look at the window, glass panes invisible beneath the wood paneling. “Have you heard anything from the people that have gone missing?”

Erik clenched his fist beneath the table, swallowing. 

“I’m not of enough rank to know about that. Yet.” 

“It’s not just the Jewish anymore,” Oxford’s eyes were almost electrical blue in the dimness if the room. “They are also taking men who fancy other men, women who fancy other women, gypsies, and more. It seems as though everything Hitler finds undesirable goes to the relocation camps.”

“And then?” Erik stared at the covered window, eyes half lidded, stomach twisting, heart racing. 

“I wonder,” Oxford murmured. 

+++

“My family has left Germany,” Erik said, a month and a half later as Oxford un-winded a long scarf from around his neck. 

“Do they need assistance?” Oxford asked carefully, sitting down. “Do you?”

Erik dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. “I’m not leaving.” 

“This is getting more and more dangerous for you, Mr. Klein. I would understand. I have permission to have you extracted at any time. You need only say the word.”

“I can still do much more.” 

Oxford’s blue eyes were sympathetic but sharp with an almost dangerous intelligence. 

“I don’t want you to get a bullet to the head because we grow complacent, Mr. Klein.” 

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” Erik asked suddenly, apropos of nothing, eyes falling down to the small hollow at the base of Oxford’s long, elegant throat. The boy looked away, previously flushed cheeks paling. Erik swallowed and looked away. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. 

Oxford swallowed with some difficulty, busying himself with extracting his notebook form his bag and regaining his composure. 

“Yes,” he said finally, giving Erik a passing, pained glance. “As am I.” 

Erik exhaled smoke and started giving his report, thinking of pretty young girls and names in gravestones, and all the lovers and husbands and wives that would never return to the arms of their loved ones. 

+++

“It’s snowing like mad out there,” Oxford said, breathless and somehow smiling as he shut the door firmly behind himself, cheeks flushed bright red from the cold. 

“Yes, I know. How are your lines coping?”

“Badly,” Oxford said breezily, moving quickly to the fire before starting to pull off his gloves. The scene was oddly domestic, and Erik had to repress the impulse to reach forward and pull the thick coat off the boy’s shoulders. He moved away instead, thinking dangerous, dangerous things. 

“Quite badly indeed. We almost feel like Napoleon entering Russia. Not at all prepared, little shelter, no food. But I surmise help is on the way.” 

“This war has gone on much too long,” Erik said, sitting on a chair and lighting his ever-present cigarette, watching the smoke curl sensuously in the air. 

The spy glanced at him briefly as he divested himself from his heavy winter clothing. Erik absolutely did not conspicuously keep track of his movements, efficient and quick. 

“Oh, a war that goes on for an hour has gone on much too long.”

“War is in human nature, Oxford.” 

“I think humans are much too varied to speak of something of a human nature, do you not?” 

Erik stared out the window to a landscape covered in white, and thought of his mother on a boat bound to England. 

“It’ll be Hanukkah soon,” he murmured absently. 

Oxford stilled, blue eyes wide. 

“Yes,” he said quietly, taking his seat with slow, careful gestures. “It coincides with Christmas Eve this year, does it not?” 

Erik pinned him with a look. 

“How do you know?”

“Three of the men in my company are Jewish. I’ve been looking for a rabbi for them, but I fear none are in the area.” 

“Do you know their names?” Erik asked, closing his eyes. 

Oxford hesitated, but seemed to find no damage in a small kindness. 

“Pedlowski, Cegelniki and Adelstein. Would you like me to ask them to spare a thought for you?” 

Erik didn’t answer. 

“Did you know I was Jewish?”

“I knew you must have been some sort of sympathizer. But as I said, it is no longer only the Jewish that are relocated.” 

“What happens after the relocation camps, Oxford?” Erik asked, staring at the burning tip of his cigarette. 

“I don’t know,” Oxford answered softly. 

Erik’s eyes cut up to him, angry. 

“You’re a spy,” he spat. “ _Find out_.” 

+++

Two weeks later:

“It’s impassable out there,” Erik said, looking idly out the window into the blizzard. “You’ll have to stay the night.”

“Much too risky, my friend. I have walked blizzards before.” 

“You told me you get lost,” Erik replied, looking at him with an arched eyebrow. 

Oxford smiled, “Well remembered.” 

Erik let the curtain fall back. “You’re no good to anyone frozen dead.”

“What a lovely image,” Oxford huffed out a short laugh. He was a young man, perhaps not a boy but certainly not as jaded as Erik was. He was full of life still, full of hope and belief in mankind. He thought there was such potential in men, such ability to do _good_. 

Erik looked down at the lighter in his hand, eyes half-lidded. “You’ve no idea how very blue your eyes would look, open wide face down against the snow.”

When he looked up, Oxford was staring at him, sad and compassionate. 

“Very well, my friend,” he said gently, putting down his coat. “I will stay.” 

Erik closed his eyes and let his head fall back. 

“You’re the only person in the world who knows what I am.” 

“No, Klein,” Oxford said, moving closer and touching Erik’s arm in a friendly, comforting gesture. “So do my superiors, who are very keen on helping you. Even if I were to die, you will not be in your own, my friend. You are not alone.” 

Erik lifted his head and looked at him. His wide blue eyes, his feather-white skin, his red-red lips. 

_Yes, I am_ , he thought, indulging in some melancholy. Oxford was just the kind of boy Erik liked to have under him—unfortunately, he was also the kind of boy that liked to have women underneath himself. And he was freshly broken-hearted—his pretty young girlfriend had died less than a month ago. 

“You’ve lasted more than any of the others,” he said quietly. “What’s your name? I want to remember you.”

Oxford squeezed his arm once, a gesture of reassurance, before he withdrew to lean against the wall at the other side of the window, nearly mirroring Erik’s position. 

“Charles,” he said, smiling ruefully. “Charles Francis Xavier.”

“Erik—“

“Don’t,” Xavier raised a hand, straightening. “Please. If I’m caught, I don’t want to risk it.”

“But you just told me _your name_.”

“I’m safe behind English lines. You’re not. I’m sorry, my friend, but—“

“It’s a fake name anyway,” Eri murmured, resting his forehead against the wall and closing his eyes. “I wasn’t born with it. My mother gave me another name. Maximilian Eisenhardt.” 

Charles sighed, but smiled. 

“Max, then,” he said, offering his hand for a handshake. His grasp was firm and dry, warm against Erik’s perpetually cold fingers. 

+++

Three weeks later Erik slipped through an archway and into and abandoned fabric, huddling miserably against his coat, and found Charles leaning heavily against a wall, holding a rag to his bleeding head. 

“What happened?” he hissed, removing Charles’ hand and looking at the wound, a deep, long gash along his right temple. 

“Stray debris and a lot of bad luck,” Charles said dizzily. 

“Goddamnit. Sit down.” 

Charles attempted to obey and swayed dangerously forward. Erik caught him, slid his arm around the smaller man’s trim waist and helped him slide down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, resting his head carefully back. 

“I think I’m going to faint,” the Englishman said vaguely. 

“No, you’re not. You need to stay conscious just a while longer.”

The boy didn’t answer, eyes falling slowly closed. Erik grabbed his arm and gave him a gentle shake, wincing when the man’s head smacked the wall, eliciting a pained hiss. 

“Charles. Open your eyes and talk to me.” 

“About…”

“Tell me of your family,” Erik said distractedly, rummaging in his leather bag for bandages. He always had bandages with him. 

“I’ve a sister, she’s a nurse. My mother’s married a man, and he despises me. It’s quite mutual, though, so I suppose that makes it better.” 

“What of your father?”

“Never met him. Died when I was but a child—“ he hissed suddenly as Erik dabbed at his wound with antiseptic, brushing back his thick, surprisingly soft hair. 

“Why does your stepfather hate you?” 

Xavier didn’t answer, eyes fluttering shut again. Erik grabbed his head and lifted it, murmuring quietly. 

“No, no, no. Charles, wake up. Charles. Wake up _now_. Charles—“

“Yes,” Xavier exhaled drowsily. “I’m awake, Max.” 

“Keep talking to me. I’m going to start a fire.” 

Erik shifted to get up, but Xavier’s hand shot out, grasping his wrist weakly. 

“Too risky. No light. Just…” he hesitated a moment, eyes wandering vaguely, until he pulled himself together again and focused back on Erik. “My bag,” he said, looking around, head too heavy to hold up. 

Erik guided his head to rest back against the wall again and grabbed for his bag, on the floor a few feet away. He threw the flap open and started looking through, “What am I looking for?” he glanced up, found Xavier staring at him with half-lidded, shockingly blue eyes. 

“Notebook,” he said. “Write down. What you were going to tell me.” 

The German spy huffed in irritation, throwing the bag down on the floor and cradling Xavier’s head in his hands again to look at the wound. It had stopped bleeding, thankfully. Erik cleaned it again and pressed a bandage to it, wrapping a long gauze around the man’s head to hold it in place. 

“You’re bleeding out of your goddamn temple and you care about information?” 

“It can’t go to waste,” Xavier murmured. “All your efforts.”

Erik made a grunt of disinterest, tidily tying the ends of the bandage to secure it. He turned Xavier’s face back to him and to the side so the moonlight streaked over his right eye, and watched with some satisfaction as the pupil contracted obediently. 

“In my notebook,” Xavier closed his eyes. “I found out. About the camps. I found out for you. I was going—I wanted to tell you. But I don’t—read it. You’ll have to read it.” 

And he blacked out, fallen on the floor against the wall like a broken doll, striking blue eyes closed, cherry-red lips parted. 

Erik, hands shaking, reached for the bag again. As he flipped it open he felt like he was invading Xavier’s privacy, peeking into a life that he had no right to. Carefully, so carefully, he shifted so he could sit against the wall and gently place the man’s head against his thigh, keeping an eye out for the wound. 

He found the notebook at the bottom, hesitated for a long time tapping it idly against his hand and looking around. Finally, out of options and with curiosity and trepidation weighing on him, he opened the notebook. 

Right beneath the cover, pinned to the dog-eared first page, was a photo of a couple. Xavier was easy to recognize, although his hair then had been shorter and there was a bright glint in his eye that he was now sadly missing. The girl, then, must have been the dead nurse. Without really knowing what he was doing he unpinned the picture and looked at the back.

In someone’s round, loose writing: _See you soon, professor! Xoxo, Moira._

Moira, Erik thought, swallowing. 

He laid his hand gently on Xavier’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, and he pinned the photo again, facing up. The he flipped pages, and remembered with dismay that Xavier wrote in code—he wouldn’t be able to read a single word. He thumbed through the worn paper anyway, patiently waiting for Xavier to come to.

An envelope fluttered down from between two pages, settling on the floor by Erik’s thigh. He reached forward to pick it up and realized it has his name on it, with Xavier’s familiar handwriting: _Max_. 

He opened it, and in it he wound a letter composed of three pages. 

Xavier came awake, hours later, alone in the cold with only the sounds of Erik’s distant retching for company. He rose unsteadily to his feet and found the German, crumbled on the floor, clutching the letter. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, falling to his knees next to him and bringing the man gently into himself, trying to contain his trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” Erik sobbed, folding in on himself, pressing his forehead to the cold floor. “ _Why?_ ” 

“I don’t know,” Xavier said helplessly, curling over the curve of the man’s back. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

+++

“The winter’s over, and so now it rains,” Xavier mused absently, watching Erik divest himself of his long raincoat.

“It will soon hail as well,” Erik said quietly, taking off his uniform hat and dropping it on the table. He unbuttoned his jacket and took it off, dropping it carelessly on the floor as he moved closer to the fire. 

Xavier rose from his chair and picked it up, folding it carefully over a chair. 

“Throw it in the fire for all I care,” Erik mumbled. 

“The uniform keeps you safe,” Xavier said gently. 

Erik felt sick to the stomach. 

“You’ve grown very thin, Max,” Xavier came closer, laid a hand carefully on Erik’s arm. “Sit down, have something to eat.” 

“I’m not hungry,” Erik rubbed at his eyes tiredly, allowing his shoulders to relax a fraction as Xavier insisted in directing him to the table, where he finally collapsed into one of the chairs. 

“Dry you hair, please,” the Englishman said, handing him a towel. “I don’t want you to get sick.” 

“Wouldn’t be of any use if I caught pneumonia,” Erik said quietly, staring down at the towel in his hands without moving. 

The silence stretched. 

Xavier took the towel back, and very cautiously, very tenderly, began to dry Erik’s hair for him, with gentle fluid motions. Once he was satisfied he could dry it no further with the towel, he folded it over the back of a nearby chair and moved to the stove, where a kettle had began to steam. 

“Please, eat something, for me.”

The German looked down at the table and saw a plate and cutlery. He felt the urge to vomit. Still, he reached over and picked up the knife, closed his fist over it and saw his hand shake. 

He lashed out, catching Xavier’s hand and tugging him back. Xavier came willingly, concern shining in his too-blue eyes. 

“I haven’t had valuable information in months, Xavier,” Erik said bluntly, staring up at the Englishman openly. “I’m of no use to you any longer. I’m not… they’re not even using me anymore. I think—maybe they—they can _tell_ , Xavier.” 

Xavier shook his head quickly, bringing his other hand up to squeeze Erik’s shoulder. 

“No, Max. No. They don’t know. They’re not using you because you’re wasting away, my friend. You can’t weigh more than I do, now. I believe perhaps they think the war has gotten the best of you. But no, rest assured—they do _not know_.” 

“But if they found out, if they so much as suspect, I—“

“They don’t,” Xavier said firmly, leaning down closer to Erik’s face and cradling his head in his long-fingered hands, eyes intent. “They don’t know. They don’t suspect. You are safe. Calm your mind.” 

“I’m not _safe_ ,” Erik snapped, getting up so brusquely Xavier stumbled back, bracing himself against the table. “I’m not safe anywhere! My people are—murdered, like pigs for slaughter! I sit down with the soldiers to eat and they make room for me because I am an officer, but _my people_ , Xavier—these men will put a bullet through me if they so much as suspect…”

He trailed off, voice broken, staring at his left hand. He still had the knife in his grip, knuckles white, but he realized for the first time he’d caught it by the blade. Blood dripped quietly to the floor. Slowly, he turned his hand palm up and opened his fingers, letting the knife clatter to the wooden floor. 

“I live with them,” he murmured. “I sleep with them and I eat with them and I share a truck with them every day.”

He looked up, found Xavier looking at him, eyes wide and too open, too full of emotions for Erik to bear looking at him. 

“I live with my murderers, Xavier.” 

The man’s face changed, a brief moment of uncontrollable emotion taking hold of it, but he closed his eyes and regained control of himself, dragging a shaky breath through parted lips. 

“May I look at it?” he asked, moving towards Erik as if expecting to be rejected. The German stared, uncomprehending. “Your hand. You’ve hurt your hand. May I look at it?” 

Erik looked down at his hand, watch blood rolling easily out of the cut and dripping to the floor, thick and vivid red against his white skin. He nodded numbly, sat down when Xavier urged him to, watched as if hypnotized as the man cleaned the wound and wound a long strip of bandage around it. 

“I can’t—“he said brokenly, dropping his head forward to Xavier’s shoulder. “I can’t go back. I’m—Charles, don’t—don’t send me back there, _I can’t_.”

“No,” Xavier said, carding soothing fingers through the soft curling strands of hair at Erik’s nape. “No, of course not. You’re coming with me. It’s enough, quite enough, Max, I should have extracted you a long time ago.”

Xavier looked around, glanced towards the window to gouge the light. 

“How long before they miss you?” 

Erik considered. “Five hours, just about.”

Xavier nodded, combing his fingers through Erik’s hair one last time before he rose, snatching up the German uniform jacket. Erik recoiled visibly, and Xavier pinned him with his eyes. 

“None of that. I understand your loathing, but I won’t have you fall sick because you refuse to wear these clothes. Put them on. I have a clean English uniform for you back at my station.”

“What?” Erik asked dumbly, tamely getting to his feet when Xavier tugged on his arm. “You have a—how long have you had that?”

“A couple of months,” Xavier admitted distractedly, quickly going about the room, gathering his things. “Ever since—“ he stopped, turned around to look at Erik. “Since you read the letter about the camps.”

Erik looked down at the jacket in his hands, seeing the sea-grey of the finely tailored wool, cut precisely for the width of his shoulders, the trim of his waist. 

“What are you doing about them?” he asked. 

Xavier came to stand in front of him, holding out his long raincoat. 

“We don’t know where they are,” he answered. This was one of the things Erik liked the most about Xavier: he never lied. “We can’t do anything about them until we know where to look for them. The Russian have found some, but we’re certain there have to be more, scattered across Poland and Germany.”

Erik clenched his hands. The cut sting in his palm, blood running down the spaces between his fingers. 

“Give me another month,” he said through clenched teeth. 

Xavier came to stand in front of him, blue eyes wide. 

“Don’t give up on me, Xavier. I can _find_ them. I know I can—I just need to get myself together and… one more month, please.”

“Max,” Xavier rubbed a hand over his eyes, tiredly. “You’re in no condition to go back to the German lines. If I don’t extract you, soon they’ll ask you to take a leave of absence, ad then how will I find you and help you? Come with me now, yes? Let’s end this.”

Erik clenched his jaw, shook his head. 

“One month.”

Xavier’s hands fell limp to his sides. Erik didn’t look up, but he could imagine the man’s expression: tired, compassionate and concerned all at once. 

“One month,” he agreed in a sad murmur. “Now _eat_.”

+++

Xavier had said a month, and Erik knew he’d not let him stay a second longer, so he needed to get as much information as he could in the short time he had left. He absolutely could not lose Xavier—if he did, he’d be trapped with the Nazis for the duration, or until he got killed. Or killed himself, a choice that was beginning to grow on him. 

In the days following that afternoon Erik clung to Xavier’s words—his reassurance that he was not alone, his insistence that the Nazis didn’t know who he was, that they didn’t suspect. Xavier was right—he’d been wasting away, he was barely skin and bones. 

Erik made an effort to follow Xavier’s directions: eat, be calm, listen, pay attention but don’t draw it. 

Sometimes it was too much. Sometimes he’d be sitting there in the dining room with the SS officers talking animatedly around him and he’d be sick to his stomach. When that happened, he reminded himself of what Xavier had said; that he could extract him whenever Erik asked him, that the Englishman would take him to safety. 

It felt, increasingly, like Charles Xavier was all Erik had left. His family was long gone, tucked safely out of the way in America, well away from harm. Erik was glad for that, glad and relieved, but that still left him all alone in a country he no longer belonged to, surrounded by murderers who would just as soon put a bullet in him if only they knew he was Jewish. 

Erik was scared—he was terrified. Keeping up the calm front, acting like he agreed with what was going on while at the same time hiding his knowledge of what was done in the camps—it felt like if he shared another meal with these monsters he would never be clean of them. Their filth clung to his skin like dirt, dug its way under his fingernails, stuck to his hair and throat and coated his lungs as he breathed it in. 

But every morning he woke up and every night he went to bed and he never showed anything but dedication and love for the mission of the SS. Erik was tall, blond and blue-eyed—he was the perfect Aryan man, and the men around him were willing to forgive quirks in respect for his fine blood. 

Erik wanted to slit their throats open and watch the blood soak into the fine wool of their sharp black uniforms. 

Sometimes it felt like the urge stuck at his throat, clinging there like a knotted scream he knew he’d never let out. 

He _couldn’t_.  
Xavier would be waiting for him one month exactly after their last meeting, waiting for him with civilian clothes and a fake name he could hide under. Within hours he’d be behind Allied lines, safe, _safe_. 

Safe and with Xavier. 

It became a ritual to sit at night in his bed, thumbing the safety on his luger pistol. He’d think of shooting each and every one of the monsters sharing this roof with him, of becoming a shadow built on horror and hate, a specter of revenge feeding on blood. He’d coat his hands with it and carry as his badge of honor, a stain too deeply engraved to ever wash off. 

Sometimes he’d think of killing himself instead, and embrace the sweet release of that easier, quicker end. 

He’d put his finger in the trigger and shift the weight of the gun in his hands, and then he’d think of Xavier’s hands cradling his head— _you are safe, calm your mind_ —and the genuine affection in his blue eyes, the smile in his red-red lips. And he’d put the safety back on and stretch out in his bed and force himself to sleep. 

The month dragged by, slow cruel hours ticking by in a reluctant clock. One minute, one hour, one day, one week. 

Erik learned nothing. 

It was more than just the frustration of not figuring out a way to get the information he so desperately wanted. It was a deeper fear, a dread, the blackest terror he could think of—that if he had no information then he had no worth as a spy, either, and Xavier would turn him away. 

He couldn’t think of it. The sheer enormity of it made his breath catch in panic, his chest crush in and compress his lungs. Without Xavier Erik had no delusions—he’d kill himself. The only doubt he had was whether he’d just go ahead and do it, or take a few SS officers along with him as well. 

The latter probably—if he had to go down, he’d damn well not go down alone. 

It crawled by, but the month did pass, and so eventually Erik found himself in his private quarters, sitting in his head, with his head in his hands. 

Nothing. He had nothing. 

Noon. He surged to his feet, paced like a caged animal, wall to wall to wall and back. Sat on the bed. Got up. Paced. Afternoon. He tried to calm himself, tried to tell himself this was Xavier, he knew Xavier, the Englishman believed in his oaths, in keeping his promises. He genuinely did care whether Erik was breathing or not. He’d _promised_. Erik paced, did _not_ sob. Evening. Xavier would be arriving at their rendezvous point now. He’d have with him civilian clothes for Erik, warm and thick and just his size, because Xavier was careful like that. 

Back behind the Allied lines there was an English uniform waiting for him. 

Or would be, if Erik was worth Xavier’s time. 

Which he was not, because he had _no information._

Erik caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—tall, pale, blond and blue-eyed, in the exquisite black wool of his Schutztaffel uniform. He picked up his cap, run his fingers through the braided aluminum that marked him an officer. His stomach roiled.

He threw the cap away to the bed, leaned heavily on his dresser and tried to breathe through the rising panic. 

Night fell. 

Xavier was waiting for him. 

But Erik had _nothing_. What good was he for the strategist if he couldn’t even find this much out? What good had he been even in the last three months? Ever since that letter he’d—

Erik’s breath rasped in his dry throat. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Xavier was waiting and Erik had nothing. If he went to him like this, offering nothing in exchange for Xavier’s kindness, he’d be nothing more than a burden for the strategist, one more useless tool, a weapon that had run its course. 

Yet it was clear he was no longer trusted to hold his own in the Schutztaffel—he didn’t think he’d manage to gain any other sort of valuable information, anything that would endear Xavier to him, _anything._

What if—what if he stayed a bit longer, tried to learn something, maybe he could—torture some of these monsters and…

Erik let himself fall on his bed, run his hands through his hair. No, that would never work. They thought he was weak, scared of the war. They would not trust him. And if he did torture them, they’d only spit in his face. He knew these men. They would not break. 

Abruptly Erik felt absolutely panicked. Xavier was _waiting for him_ —what he thought Erik had been killed or had sold him out to the Schutztaffel? What if he left and abandoned Erik here?

He snatched up his cap and stormed out of his quarters, shoving his arms into his longcoat’s sleeves with little care. He got to the stairs and swayed at the top of them— _calm your mind_. It would not do to alert them that anything was amiss. Erik took a deep breath, steadied himself, fixed his cap and coat to look as sharp as he ought to. 

He walked down the stairs, through the hall and out into the courtyard, all at an even calm and elegant pace. Walked down the street, turned the corner, walked down that street, turned another corner. 

Ran for it. 

It took him twenty minutes to race to the small house where they had met. It was full-night, and his coat and uniform helped blend him into the shadows, and even those few who crossed his path quickly slipped away. No one would dare interfere with an SS officer on duty. 

The house was unlocked and dark. It meant nothing—of _course_ it was dark, no one was supposed to be in it. He rushed in, closed the door. He didn’t dare call out; he took off his cap and run his hand through his hair, walking briskly through the house. 

He found Xavier in the kitchen, standing with his hands on the table, alert and alarmed. When he saw it was Erik, his calm face broke into a concerned frown. 

“Are you hurt? You’re very late. I was beginning to fear that…”

 _Are you hurt_ were the first words out of the boy’s mouth, good lord, and Erik almost came undone. He clutched the cap in his hands, torn. 

“Xavier, I… I don’t—“

The strategist’s face became stone. 

“Don’t even think about delaying this another week, Maximilian, so help me God—I will drag you out of here.” 

“The information—“

“ _Fuck_ the information,” Xavier snapped viciously, rounding the table with an aggressiveness that startled Erik. Xavier was a short man, compact and solid but small. Max had never _once_ seen him be violent. 

The Englishman shoved a bundle against Erik’s stomach, eyes blazing. 

“Change into these clothes _right now_. That uniform on you is making me sick.” 

Erik clutched the bundle of clothes, hands trembling. Oh, to be out of this wretched uniform at last. But still—

“I can’t abuse you like this. I have no information to trade for the safety you’re offering me. If you give me another week—“

“They haven’t trusted you in months,” Xavier interrupted, cold. “They’re not about to trust you next week. You’ve burned out. It’s time. Change into the clothes and come with me.” 

And so Erik did, stripping quickly and throwing the uniform on the table, stepping into dark slacks, a shirt and turtleneck, a long coat, a beret. The boots he kept—they were good boots, and Erik wasn’t disgusted enough that he couldn’t be pragmatic. 

Xavier nodded when he was done, gathered the SS uniform into a bag to dispose of where no one would find it, and lead the way to the door. 

Just as they were about to leave Erik caught his wrist and tugged insistently to bring the man close. 

“Erik,” he murmured. “My name now is Erik.”

Xavier smiled, twisting his wrist to clasp Erik’s own. He squeezed, comforting. 

“Charles, as you know. Erik—let us get you home.” 

_Wherever you are_ , Erik thought fervently, and said nothing, did nothing. He let go of Charles’ wrist. He followed close, keeping a hand around the luger in his coat pocket, watching Charles’ back. 

++++

The uniform Charles had for Erik was green and elegant and exactly the right size. When Erik emerged from Charles’ tent in the uniform of a British soldier, the Englishman smiled at him. 

Erik had never seen Charles in his own uniform. He was a Lieutenant Colonel of His Majesty’s Army, and even though he was primarily an intelligence officer, he had a field rank that put him in charge of the movement of over six hundred men. His uniform was tailored exactly, and though he’d been on the field for a long time now, he had kept it sharp and clean. 

“I’m sorry about the rank,” Charles said, smiling slightly. 

Erik studied his new uniform; his shoulder-straps had a small red-and-gold crown emblazoned in them, whereas Charles’ had the crown and a small star in addition. 

“Ah,” Erik said, thinking. “I am a major. Your subordinate, yes?”

“Yes,” Charles said, pulling a face. “Like I said, I’m sorry. I know your rank translates closer to Brigadier, but I figured that it would be better for you to be with me for a while, just until you get used to things, you understand. If—that is, if it upsets you, I understand I took a liberty, I can always request for a Brigadier insignia for you. Needless to say you need not follow my orders, you’re not actually my subordinate.” 

Erik could say, without lying, that he would follow Charles to hell and back. He didn’t mind being his subordinate—in fact, he much preferred it. It went without saying that spy or not, the British troops would not easily embrace a German soldier into their ranks, and he did indeed need the guidance, as German and English armies behaved differently. 

Besides, being under Charles’ direct responsibility meant Charles would have to be around him to supervise his perfect integration to the English lines. 

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he said, straightening his uniform with close attention. He liked how he looked in it, though he didn’t have a mirror on hand; Erik had been told he looked good in fine uniforms. He hoped Charles thought so as well. “I think you were right, it’s best that you stay close to me for now.”

“Oh,” Charles frowned. “This isn’t about supervising you, you understand. I only worried I am the only one here you know, and I want you to feel at home.”

Erik glanced around quickly. As Lt.Colonel and strategist, Charles was given the relative luxury of a tent to keep his equipment and maps dry and protected, and a custody guard assigned exclusively to ensure his safety. Normally on the field such an arrangement would be rare, but the line here hadn’t moved in months, so settling down was not madness. His Majesty’s Army could hold the line here. 

“This will take some getting used to,” he admitted. 

“I can, of course, reassign you if you’d prefer that,” Charles offered. “I know you are a sharpshooter, and there are plenty of places where one such as you is needed.”

“I’d rather stay,” Erik said quickly, hoping Charles wouldn’t send him away. “I’ll follow your orders, of course. I don’t have a problem with the rank.”

Charles stared at him, and to Erik he looked a little sad. 

“It’s strange to see you this uncertain, my friend. I assure you, whatever you need, I will try to give it to you, whether that is for you to be your rightful rank or for me to arrange that you go home to America and to your family.”

Erik thought, _I need you to let me crawl in bed with you at night and hold me_ , and then thought, _America and my family aren’t home_. And then, fortunately, he thought _I can’t tell him any of this_ , and _Moira_. 

He shook his head. 

“I trust you. I need you to help me adjust.” 

He hoped Charles understood that Erik needed him still, even though he wasn’t his only link to something good he had in the entire world. Charles was an intelligent man; surely he knew about emotional connections between spies and their liaisons, especially when they had been in contact for a long period of time. 

“Very well then,” Charles smiled widely. “Let me introduce you to the battalion.”

Charles’ guard battalion was… eccentric, to put it mildly. Charles joked that they called them ‘wildcats’, and Erik was not surprised. At best they were peculiar and at worst they were a rag-tag band of psychopaths, and God knows why anyone would let any of them handle a rifle, let alone a machine-gun. 

Their ages ranged from twenty-two to forty-eight, their heights and body builds were as dissimilar as their birth-dates. Discipline appeared by all means to be a word they’d heard mentioned and then promptly forgotten. The strategist supposedly had a bodyguard duty assigned exclusively to him at all times, but they were currently nowhere to be seen. 

“They’re brothers,” Charles explained when Erik looked stunned. “They tend go off on walks by themselves, sometimes. Their names are Scott and Alex, you’ll meet them soon enough.”

The most prominent amongst the battalion were as follows. Sean Cassidy, a startlingly calm and somewhat distant young red-head whose entire face was covered in freckles. Henry McCoy, the resident medic, tall and gangly and, Charles confided in Erik, a surprisingly talented sharp-shooter himself. Piotr, a lumbering giant of steel-grey eyes and Russian blood that handled the machine-gun together with his cousin, smaller but not for it less intimidating, Azazel. The small and limber Kurt Wagner, of German descent, who didn’t speak a single word of German, even though he spoke French, Russian, Portuguese and Italian and clearly had a gift with languages. Robert Drake, a warm and easy-going young man who apparently lost all semblance of affection and, as far as Erik could tell, _sanity_ , as soon s you put conflict in front of him. 

Erik had thought it odd that Charles had chosen to introduce him to the soldiers before he took him to meet the battalion leader, but as soon as they were in the same tent together it made sense. 

James Howlett was, to put it kindly, an animal. 

“So now you’re taking in Krauts too?” he asks once Charles had made the introductions. 

Erik stiffened. 

Charles pinned Howlett with a hostile, frigid look. 

“Say that again and I’ll have you deployed to hospital guarding duties.” 

Howlett grimaced. “Ain’t no one’s gonna take me but you, Chuck.”

“I can bully someone into embracing you, I’m sure,” Charles said emphatically. 

The coarse man waved a hand. “Whatever, just keep your pet away from me.” 

Erik gave a step forward, opening his mouth, but Charles’ hand was suddenly on his stomach, keeping him back. The contact shocked him—Charles hadn’t touched him since they had left the safe-house in the city, and in the cold his hand was warm against Erik’s belly. He looked down at it, at the pale skin over his knuckles, his short strong fingers, his carefully close-cut nails. He stared at it, against the fabric of his uniform—his green British uniform, the uniform of an English major. 

Charles was _talking_.

“—Erik. Logan, I’m going to _skin you alive_ —Erik, _listen_ —“

“Yes,” he rasped, and stilled his hands when they wanted to come up and touch Charles’—one on his belly and the other, now, on his arm. “Yes, I’m well.” 

Charles glared at Howlett over his shoulder, cold as ice. 

“You watch your mouth from now on, Logan.” 

But Howlett wasn’t staring at Charles—he was staring right at Erik, with eyes that saw straight through him, to the core of him, to the secrets buried beneath. 

He knew. _He knew_. 

“Well,” he said, slowly, taking the cigar carefully from his mouth. “And what are we going to do with this hound of yours, Chuckie?” 

“You are abominable,” Charles said firmly, turning around so his hand fell from Erik’s stomach, but the other, oh, the other remained comforting on his arm. “I would prefer Erik to stay around me for the time being, until he adjusts a bit.”

“I don’t think _Lehnsherr_ will have a problem will that, will you, kid?”

Erik swallowed through a dry throat. “I’d rather—I think Charles is right.”

“Erik is a sniper,” Charles continued, giving Erik’s arm a slight squeeze. Erik leaned into the touch, grateful for the support. Howlett’s eyes narrowed. 

“Ain’t that something,” he said. “Then I guess we’ll out his talents to good use, hm? How about bodyguard for your benefactor here? Just until you get in the swing of things, yeah?” 

Howlett _knew_ , and he was still giving him the opportunity to stay close to Charles with a legitimate excuse, to _protect_ him. Erik leapt at the chance. 

“That’s hardly necessary—“

“Shut up, Chuck. Lehnsherr and I have some details to work out. You don’t need to stick around. He’s a big boy, he can manage a few minutes without your stellar company.” 

Charles glanced at Erik, but the German nodded. Howlett clearly wanted him alone; he wanted to say something he didn’t want Charles to hear. Erik could be grateful for that, too. He was grateful for a great many things, today. The strategist nodded, somewhat hesitant but willing to give them a chance. He murmured something about checking on Piotr and Azazel, and walked away. 

“Well,” Howlett said low, eyes as sharp as blades. “More a puppy than a hound, I’d wager.” 

Erik swallowed. “I owe him everything.” 

“You owe him a great deal,” Howlett corrected, tilting his head. “Not everything. But you know what, I’m gonna work with this. Charles needs a bodyguard, and you’re clearly panting to be near him, so there you have it. It works out. I’ll get you a proper rifle. In the meantime just keep hovering like you do.”

Howlett hadn’t spoken the word, and if he wasn’t going to, neither was Erik. He nodded, speechless, and turned around to join Charles.

+++

Howlett had given Erik a choice: sleep in a foxhole outside with the others, or have a cot in Charles' tent and tolerate Charles’ apparently army-wide known habit of talking in his sleep. 

Needless to say, Erik took the cot. 

Thus he spent the vast majority of his time with Charles. Howlett kept to his word—he somehow got Erik a truly magnificent rifle, along with a side arm. Erik kept the rifle with him at all times, slung over his shoulder or across his chest, keeping a vigilant eye even though they were safe here behind Allied lines. 

Erik learned he had been the last spy Charles had behind German lines, and thus freed of that commitment Charles was able to devote himself to gather intelligence from the Allies themselves, putting together strategies and making intuitive leaps of reasoning that it appeared only Erik was capable of following at all. The commanders trusted Charles implicitly, as if the possibility of not following him never even showed up in their minds. 

They were weary around Erik, in the beginning. Charles did his best to assuage their concerns, but in the Erik knew it would come down to how he behaved, and what his actions said of him. In any case, he didn’t truly harbor any hope of being embraced; even had he not been a German spy, he was now officially part of the Wildcats, and the Army trusted them about as much as they trusted rusty grenades. 

The last dregs of the winter dispersed with the passing of days, and soon they found themselves in the middle of spring. The line was immobile here, with both sides low on ammunition and struggling for supplies, but one can always expect a war to re-kindle in the warmer climates, so Charles was constantly on alert. 

The Englishman spent a lot of time in meetings Erik was not allowed into, so Erik spent a lot of time sitting around outside tents cleaning his rifle or looking around, keeping an eye on things. He noticed early on this got his new army mates slightly nervous, but he didn’t know to appease their distrust, and he really wanted to make sure to know everything that happened around them. 

The downside of having so much time to think, though, was that he used it precisely for that. 

In the afternoons, Charles took his tea in his tent, looking over maps and making annotations, consulting different documents. Erik had picked up the habit of reading British strategy books in the hopes that he might be able to aid Charles with his work, but the hope was vain; Charles had internalized this sort of knowledge years ago and now mostly relied on his instincts. Erik was a sniper, not a strategist. 

There in the tent now, Erik stared down unseeing at the document in his hands. It was a report about a bright group of American parachute troopers that, with only a dozen men, had managed to take out an entire German outpost of anti-air weaponry, led by their one talented Lieutenant, Richard Winters. 

A most heroic act, worthy of medals. 

“Erik?” 

The German’s head snapped up, blinking to attention. 

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?” Charles looked slightly concerned. How did he always know when Erik was upset? How did he _do_ that? 

Erik made a vague sound in his throat, but desisted. There was no fooling Charles, once he had it in his head that anyone was upset. 

“I’m a traitor,” Erik announced very clearly, looking at Charles. “I’m a traitor to my country and… everything they apparently stand for.” 

“Not all German citizens support the Nazis, Erik,” Charles said carefully, putting his pencil down and rising to his feet. He came over to sit in front of Erik in the chair, leaning forward. 

“That doesn’t make me any less of a traitor,” Erik argued quietly. “I betrayed Deutschland. I made a promise of obedience and I broke it. I worked against its ideals. I’ll never… I can never go back to my homeland.”

Charles didn’t attempt to argue with this; Erik would never be able to set foot in Germany again and they both knew it. It was a comfort for Erik to know that Charles would never lie to him, not even to offer false and transient comfort. 

“I broke my oath,” he added quietly, to himself. 

“Betrayal implies a breaking of loyalty,” Charles said, calmly. “Loyalty means that you will take on actions given to you by someone in a higher post, who in exchange will protect you and shield you from the consequences of those actions insofar as it is possible and correct. This is a fact, is it not?” 

Erik nodded slowly, swallowing. 

“Right. The German Army is hunting down, imprisoning and murdering every ethnic and religious minority within the territories they have conquered. Amongst them are the Jewish, a religious minority to which you belong. This is also a fact, correct?”

Erik gritted his teeth, clenched his fists. Charles reached out and pried them open, laying Erik’s hands flat against his thighs instead. 

“If you had been found out to be a Jewish man within the Army,” Charles continued, insistent and firm, but patient. “you would have been immediately executed. Is this fact? Erik?”

The German nodded almost imperceptibly, knowing he couldn’t speak without choking. 

“They broke their end of the deal first, Erik,” Charles murmured, transferring from the chair to the cot at Erik’s side, squeezing his forearm. “They broke the contract of trust. The army is supposed to protect the people of its nation, not hunt them down and—do repulsive things to them in the name of a religion, or a belief, that they do not share. Only an abominable man would keep his loyalty to such a leader, Erik.”

Erik leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees and hide his face in his hands, gulping in air in hopes if his throat was busy, he wouldn’t start sobbing. 

“It doesn’t—it doesn’t change it,” he rasped. “I’m still a traitor—still will never see Deutschland again. I’ve lost—“

“So much,” Charles finished when Erik choked. Tenderly, sadly. He laid his hand gently on Erik’s back and rubbed up and down, sighing. “I wish I could tell you something that will ease the pain. I thought you were going to come to this eventually, I hoped that when you did I’d knew how to comfort you, but… all I can say is I’m sorry for your loss.”

Erik pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, shaking. He swallowed convulsively, tried to regain some semblance of control. He shook his head, helpless. 

“I had… so much faith when I got into the Army,” he said thickly. “I thought I could—bring things around for my family, help with money, and with social status, and… now we don’t even have a— _homeland_ anymore.” 

Charles sighed again, bringing his hand up to stroke Erik’s hair. 

“How I wish I had some solace to offer you, my friend,” he said quietly. “All I have is a promise that I’ll never ask of you anything you would not willingly give me, and I will never request you do something I would not do myself.” 

Erik took a deep breath. With it he steadied himself, and paid more close attention to the motion of Charles’ hand, stroking his hair down to his nape and up again, soothing. Then it stopped high on his back between his shoulders, warm. 

“It’s enough,” he murmured, letting his hands drop. “It’ll have to be enough.”

“As time passes it will hurt less,” Charles offered. “You’ll live a different life.”

“It feels like this war will never end.”

Charles rubbed his eyes tiredly with his free hand. “I know. But with the Americans here, and the Russians and Italians gaining momentum, we have reason to hope it’ll be all over soon.”

Erik scrubbed his hands up and down his face. 

“Would you like a drink? I have some scotch, if you’re at all inclined to it.”

“Absolutely,” Erik said emphatically. 

Charles smiled and got up to go to one of his boxes. Erik instantly missed the weight of his hand on his back. Charles wasn’t as tactile as Erik had hoped, though he never hesitated to offer contact when he thought someone might benefit from it. 

Charles found a half-full bottle of scotch and, without flinching, downed the remains of his tea and brought the two tea-cups over. He poured generously. 

“Englishmen and their cups of tea,” Erik arched a brow, amused. 

“All-purposes, my friend, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

Erik wanted to ask if Charles had ever tried lying with a man, but he sketched a tight smile instead, and took a swallow of whiskey. It burned on its way down, but the burn felt good. The taste of the spices in the rich amber liquid climbed up his throat, stuck to his palate and floated up to his nostrils. It was delicious. He liked the taste. 

“Good stuff,” he complimented, staring down at his cup. 

“Nothing but the best for Sharon Xavier’s prodigal son,” Charles smiled wistfully. 

Erik had been by Charles’ side for nearly two months now; he knew Charles hated speaking about his family; his estranged mother and despicable step father and brother. His dead father. His distant sister he never spoke to. 

He never dared touching Charles on his own, without Charles initiating any sort of contact before that might make it acceptable. But Charles looked sad and forlorn, and Erik felt empty and lost. He took a chance. 

Erik wrapped his hand around Charles’ knee and squeezed. Released. Left his hand there. 

Charles patted it companionably, sipping his whiskey. When he leaned back to sit more comfortably, he didn’t try to dislodge Erik’s hand, or object to it staying where it was. 

Erik sipped his whiskey and felt somewhat at peace. 

+++

With the spring in full bloom and the line still static, Command granted Charles permission to visit a nearby town being used barracks for a lot of freshly arrived reinforcements. Charles hoped to get some new information there, stores of fresh data he could incorporate into his planning. 

Normally Erik would refuse to leave Charles’ side, but the spy needed to go to a meeting he couldn’t go to in any case, and Erik needed grease for his rifle, a commodity he knew he’d have to dig for. So a little after they arrived in town that morning, they split up.

They reconvened at a square, and Erik noticed immediately that Charles was happy because the line of his shoulders was relaxed and his steps were brisk but calm. His head was bent down and he was turning a big can in his hands, looking positively delighted. 

As soon as he looked up and saw him, though, his eyes lit up from the inside and his red lips stretched in a wide grin. 

“You look chipper,” Erik remarked, arching a brow. 

“Look!” Charles showed him the can—Vaseline. “For the guns! We’ve been short of this for months, oh, this is _marvelous_! The boys will be ever so happy.” 

Erik was definitely not thinking of other usages for Vaseline. 

“Where did you get that?” he asked as they started in towards their hotel, shoulders brushing companionably. 

“I paid a fortune for it,” Charles shrugged, tossing the can and catching it deftly. “But it’s worth it. You’ll see the face the boys’ll make, like schoolchildren I tell you.” 

“Much like your face now, hm?” 

Charles laughed, “Now, stop that. I am not that much younger than you, my friend. What are you, thirty, thirty-one?” 

“Thirty-three, actually. And you are…?”

“Twenty-eight,” Charles scrunched up his nose childishly, elbowing Erik on the side. “But that does _not_ make you the boss of me.”

“I’m older, taller, stronger and faster. Of course I’m the boss of you.” 

“Excuse me, stronger and faster are debatable, and I still outrank you, so _there_.”

“There what?” Erik asked, amused. “That doesn’t prove anything. I was a lieutenant-commander in the German army when you were a private in English one, so I’m actually of higher rank, _kid_.” 

“Now, I maintain I—“

“ _Incoming!_ ” someone shouted, and all hell broke loose. 

The explosion wasn’t far, and a wave of debris and dust hit them in the face. Charles flinched back, raising his arms, but Erik’s mind was already racing ahead of them, and he looked around in search of shelter. He grabbed Charles’ arm and yanked him towards the nearest building, where he pushed him down to kneel against the wall and kept him there, crouching over him, pushing his head down. 

Charles’ shoulder was sharp against his chest. The side of his hip was warm between Erik’s legs, but he was too distracted by the pain in his right knee where he’d slammed it against the wall to cage Charles between his thighs to actually think about that. Charles bowed his head and covered it with his arms, and the delicate back of his white neck was completely exposed. Erik reached up and covered it with his large hand, then shifted to press closer to Charles and keep his head down, sheltering his neck with his arm. 

Three more bombs explode in the square, one of them hitting close enough Erik could feel the heat on his back. 

“Erik?” Charles struggled against him, trying to get up. “Erik, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” the German said quietly, raising his head to look around. “Stay down for a minute. I want to make sure there aren’t others coming.” 

Charles stilled obediently, body tensed with concern, eyes wide. 

Minutes ticked by. 

Erik finally nodded, slowly removing himself with Charles with a reluctance he was very much intent on not showing. He uncurled himself from around his friend, dragging him up by the arm. 

They surveyed the area. The fountain at the center of the square was no more. The whole side of the postal office to the right had crumbled, spilling rocks and stones like guts onto the street, occasional spurts of flames bursting in from inside as men rushed in to control the growing mess. There was a fresh crater in the previously smooth stones of the street, exposing the tar and soil beneath it. 

Nearby someone was crying out for a medic, and one darted immediately over, yelling for shocked soldiers to make way for him. Erik stepped back and tugged on Charles’ arm, startling him out of his shock. 

“There’s nothing we can do here,” he said quietly. “Let’s go back to our hotel, and see if it’s still standing.” 

Charles nodded numbly, and followed along when Erik started moving. It was only a few moments later, when Charles shifted his arm slightly uncomfortably, that Erik realized he hadn’t let go. He did, and Charles let his arm drop limply. Erik glanced at him, saw that Charles had still somehow held onto that stupid can of Vaseline. Vicious little creature. 

Charles seemed subdued and sad, though he valiantly attempted to listen to the conversation Erik tried to draw him into. Charles was always like this after the bombs—quiet and melancholic, and Erik remembered a photograph of a couple and a girl’s round, loving writing, _xoxo, Moira._

Nearly a year, now. 

“When the war is over,” Erik asked suddenly, “What will you do?”

Charles blinked blankly for a moment, and then looked down at the floor. 

“The plans I had won’t come true anymore. I guess I’ll finish University, and then… figure it out from there. You?” 

“I can’t go back to Germany. Not after—I can’t bear the thought. My family is in America, so maybe I’ll head there? I haven’t really through it through. Besides,” he smiled wearily, “I have to live through this whole thing, first.” 

“You’ll live,” Charles said, smiling again, eyes alluringly blue. “People like you don’t just die.”

“People like me?” Erik tilted his head, glancing at his friend. 

“Intelligent, educated, smart people full of life,” Charles answered easily, heartbreakingly honest. “Sometimes when I get whimsically drunk, I think of you somewhat like one of the stars in the sky. I don’t think you’ll ever burn out.” 

“I haven’t seen you drunk once, Charles.”

“I thought of you like that before,” Charles shrugged. “When you were still in the German army and we only ever met once in a while.” 

“You hardly knew me,” Erik laughed incredulously. 

“You make lasting first impressions,” Charles grinned cheekily. 

“As do you. Those eyes of yours are rather hard to forget.”

“It always comes back to my eyes with you,” Charles laughed slightly, shoving his hands on the pockets of his pants as he balanced the can of Vaseline under his right elbow. Erik thought _no, most of the time it comes back to your lips, too_. “You’ve a bit of a fixation, no?”

“They’re preternaturally blue. It’s abnormal.”

Charles gave him a look, “You’ve quite the blue eyes yourself, Erik. Pot, kettle.” 

“Grey-blue, normal color, but _yours_ are—“

“ _Incoming!_ ”

Erik and Charles both threw themselves to the ground just as the first bomb hit two blocks away. The second one fell in the building in the intersection behind them, and they scrambled desperately to their feet to seek out shelter. Charles’s hand shot out and wrapped tightly around Erik’s wrist, and they sprang through falling debris to an archway where Erik pushed Charles bodily against the wall, covering his head. 

“How many today?” Charles yelled, hands restlessly grabbing at Erik’s uniform to bring him closer, as far out of the way of flying ruins as possible in the small place they’d crowded in. 

“Six!” Erik yelled back, flinching when a section of the archway to their left crumbled. He slipped an arm around Charles’ waist and pushed him to the corner, ignoring the way his friend protested that he was being shielded _yet again_. Charles had this ridiculous notion that he didn’t need to be protected. 

The bombing didn’t go on for too long this time, and soon an eerie silence took hold of the street. 

Erik raised his head, listening carefully. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of Charles’ chest against his own, and became suddenly aware of Charles’ hand, fisted in his uniform jacket at his hip. Charles’ smaller body, trapped between the wall and his own, taller and firmer. 

His heart, already running because of the bombing, picked up even faster. Something coiled at the bottom of his stomach, tendrils of it iridescent, climbing up to his chest where they unfolded like butterfly wings. He swallowed, turned his head to look down at Charles, inches away from his face. 

Charles’ eyes were fixed on him, wide and clear like blown glass. Erik’s gaze flicked down to his lips, parted and cherry-red. 

He dipped his head slightly, only an inch, so his breath ghosted over Charles’ mouth. He felt Charles shift, felt his intake of breath, saw his lashes flutter down slightly. 

“Charles,” Erik murmured, shifting so he was crushing Charles against the wall, thrilled when Charles’ free hand curled round the leather strap holding up his ammo belt. 

The Englishman breathed out, hesitated for a moment and finally moved, pressing his forehead to Erik’s cheekbone, breathing fast and warm against Erik’s cheek. Erik pulled back slightly and moved and—

Charles’ lips were soft and sweet against his own, pliant and relaxed and willing. A moan broke free of Erik’s throat, and he pushed forward even more, like he thought of only he pushed closer and closer, he could actually climb inside Charles and share his skin, breath the air in his lungs and moan out through his vocal chords. 

A pained cry jarred them, and Erik jerked away, chest heaving, eyes fixed on Charles. The Englishman stared at him, eyes incredibly wide and blue, lips and cheeks apple-red. There was a yell now, someone shouting out in desperation, and Charles snapped out of it and brushed by Erik, seeking out the wounded man. Erik fell in behind him helplessly, discarding the shimmering spider-web of tangled emotions closing tight and cruel around his throat. 

By the time they found him, the wounded man was already in the company of a hastily acting medic, well on his way to being hauled off to a hospital. His leg was broken horribly, but though the wound was ghastly the medic didn’t seem to believe him in mortal danger. 

Charles, once again subdued and silent, made his way back to the archway and collected the discarded Vaseline, glancing briefly at Erik before suggesting they return to their hotel room. 

The silence was almost stifling in the room when Erik closed the door behind them. Charles sat the can quietly on the desk, bracing his hands on its surface and bowing his head forward. 

Erik let himself fall to the edge of his bed, rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head to his hands. 

Silence stretched.

“I won’t apologize,” he said suddenly, surging up to his feet, filled with restless energy. He crowed up behind Charles, gripping the edges of the desk so that Charles was forced to straighten or they would be pressed flushed together. “I’ve wanted you for too long, Charles. And I know that—there’s something here, Charles, _I know_. You may not understand but it’s here between us.” 

Charles swallowed thickly. Erik let his forehead fall to rest on the nape of Charles’ neck. 

“It’s wrong, Erik.”

“Why?” Erik seized his hips and whirled him around, clasping his face to force him to look him in the eye. “Why is it wrong? Says _who_?”

Charles closed his eyes, hands fluttering helplessly, undecided as to where to land. Erik leaned in, closing for a kiss—

Charles brushed by him, escaping his grasp and moving towards the door, though he didn’t make a move to grasp the doorknob. Instead he paced, running a hand through his dark, carefully cut hair, eyes skittering over the room. Erik grasped the edges of the desk, white-knuckled, trying to hold strong as his world crumbled to ashes around him. 

If Charles turned him away—Charles, the only person who really knew him, who knew who he was and who he wanted to be—if _Charles_ made him go, he would have _nothing_. 

“Erik, it’s not—that’s not how it’s supposed to go. We’re brothers, you and I.”

“Go on, then,” Erik said lowly, looking at him coldly over his shoulder. “Tell me how disgusting it is. What I want. And I do _want_ it, Charles—I want _you_.” 

“That’s not—“ Charles huffed, unsatisfied with his words, unable to convey his feelings. He leaned back against the wall, the whole of the room between them, and pressed a hand over his eyes. “God, Erik, don’t be like this.”

“Like what?” Erik growled, turning to face him. “Like _what_ , Charles?” 

“You’re not disgusting,” Charles said firmly, dropping his hand to give Erik a level, steady look. “You could never disgust me.”

“But you don’t want me,” Erik said bitterly. 

Charles brought his hands up to his face, shoulders tense. 

“I… I do—I _want_ —I don’t _know,” he settled on, helplessly. “I don’t know what…. What would happen, between us, if—Erik, I don’t—I care about you, _so much__ , but I don’t know what I’m doing, and…” he looked up, eyes wide and painfully blue. “I’m scared, Erik. I’m… I’m terrified of this.” 

Erik went very still. 

“But you feel it,” he said slowly, quietly, something like hope blossoming in his chest. “You _feel_ it, don’t you?” 

Charles looked vulnerable and lost like a child, caught in the water of an angry ocean with a mighty wave threatening to close over his head, unstoppable, undeniable. 

“Yes, Erik,” he murmured, closing his eyes. 

Erik crossed the room in two strides, crowding him up against the wall and seeking out his lips, moaning when Charles tensed but immediately relaxed against him, hands gripping his uniform. Erik tilted his head to slant their lips more comfortably, slipping his right hand around Charles’ hip to the small of his back and pressing their bodies more securely together. 

Charles’ stiffness began to dissolve, and he seemed to sink into Erik, long spine relaxing. Erik slipped his tongue between his lips and was thrilled when Charles conceded, opening his mouth for him and moaning low when Erik took complete control of it. 

Erik surged against him, crushing him against the wall even as he slipped his thigh between Charles’s legs and felt his awakening erection hot against it. He groaned, breaking the kiss to reach down and unbuckle Charles’ ammo belt, undoing it only so he could reach the buttons of the uniform jacket and work them open impatiently. 

Charles reached up to grab his head and bring him down for another kiss, and Erik was nearly undone, because there was no doubt now, no doubt that Charles _wanted this_. Erik yanked the undone jacket out of Charles’ pants and pushed up his undershirt and _oh_ , there was skin, so much skin, the smooth white skin of Charles’ lithe chest, bare and unguarded and _Erik’s_. 

He slid his hands up Charles’ flat stomach, felt the muscles there contract under his hand before he slipped his hands around his ribs and flank to Charles’ back and up gripped his shoulders beneath his undershirt, so tightly he knew he’d be leaving bruises. 

His hips bucked up against Charles’ and he trapped him against the wall again, sliding his hands down, down to Charles’ belt and undoing it with quick sure movements. He slipped a hand inside, toying with the waistband of Charles’ underwear before dipping it in to finally, finally, wrap his hand around Charles’ erection and start stroking it. Charles’ hips gave a delectable, abortive little buck and his head smacked back against the wall. 

The Englishman squirmed, and, impossibly, his hand stilled Erik’s wrist. Erik froze, dread pouring over him like acid. 

“Erik,” Charles murmured roughly, and swallowed. “Erik—slow down, please. I’ve not done this before. Be gentle.” 

Erik realized he must have been going a mile a second, and gently eased his hand out of Charles’ underwear to wrap his arms around the lithe man, straightening. 

“You’ve got me,” Charles smiled dazedly. “I’m not going anywhere. So take your time, yes? Enjoy it.” 

“You’ve not done this before,” Erik repeated carefully, his heart beating madly at Charles’ words—that he had Charles, that Charles was his. “You never found a man attractive at all?” 

“I—yes, I believe perhaps I did. But nothing as intense as with you. I thought men could be beautiful as well, but I never found a man that moved me the way Moira did, so in the end I settled with her. We made—we matched, Moira and I. But I—“ 

He stopped, hands coming up to either sides of Erik’s jaw, eyes intent. 

“It’s different with you. You’re—real, Erik. Real in a special way, more intense, more alive in my mind than anyone I’ve been with before, and—it scares me to death, but _God_ , yes, I want you. Have no doubt, my friend.” 

“A friend doesn’t do what I intend to do to you, Charles,” Erik’s lips curled in a dangerous smirk, now that he’d snapped out of his desperation. The he paused, eyes dark and serious as he brought the smaller man forward to press against him. “You promise?”

Charles smiled, brilliant and find and loving, and Erik is nearly undone. “I’m here with you, Erik, for as long as we want each other. You have my word. And you know I hardly dispense it lightly.” 

Erik took a deep breath, settled himself, and brought Charles away from the wall, walking him backwards to one of the beds instead. 

+++

Long after when their clothes laid forgotten in the floor and Charles was stretched out in the bed beneath him, long arms thrown up to grip the bars of the headboard as his spine arched exquisitely in pleasure, Erik was glad that Charles had stopped him. 

Introducing Charles to a pleasure entirely new was a privilege in itself. Charles was surprisingly responsive and sensitive, vulnerable in ways that revealed that while no virgin, Charles was certainly not _experienced_. In a strange moment of split heart Erik wanted simultaneously to be the one to teach him everything, play his fine body like musical instrument tuned to his own liking—and at the same time keep him innocent, responsive and eager and awed. 

He shifted, moving up along the lines of Charles’ body to his mouth, and gasped when his fingers curled around Charles’ cock and Charles cried out quietly, _always so quietly_ , and his back arched so that his front pressed all along Erik’s. The German removed his hand carefully, bent over the smaller man and braced his hand on the mattress by his head. 

Charles’ eyes were black with a ring of blue showing true, heavy-lidded with lust. He looked wrecked, lips swollen bright red, cheeks flushed beautifully. 

Erik’s free hand travelled down and brushed the inside of a thigh, and Charles’ legs fell open easily. Erik shifted to lay over him, cradled between his thighs, the soft skin of their insides smooth against his hips. He brought their erections together and rolled his hip down in a small circular motion; watched with pleasure as Charles gasped and threw his head back. 

Erik slipped his left arm beneath Charles’ neck and kissed him deeply, relishing the little moan it earned him. He curled his arms around Charles, slipping them between his sweat-slicked back and the sheets, and twisted to the side, bringing him on top. Charles braced himself on his elbows, a little dazed, and Erik planted his feet on the mattress and thrust up. 

“Oh God,” Charles gasped. 

“Go on,” Erik combed his hands through Charles’ dark hair, tender. “Do it.”

“Oh,” Charles blinked down at him, shifting a little in a way that made Erik gasp. “I thought you wanted to…”

“I’ll open up easier,” the German replied, and ducked his head to the side to lick the line of Charles’ jaw to his ear. “And—I want you to. Please.”

“You don’t have to beg,” Charles murmured, lifting himself up so he could brace himself on his knees and sit up between Erik’s legs. Sitting there on his heels, with Erik spread out before him on the bed, he looked simultaneously pleased and concerned. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he repeated quietly, settling a soothing hand on Erik’s right knee. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Erik shifted restlessly on the bed. He was very hard, and seeing Charles ready made him ache for it. 

“You won’t,” he assured the Englishman, lifting up to his elbows. “But if it makes you uncomfortable I can do it, and—“

“No. You shouldn’t have to. Besides,” Charles stretched out over Erik, without touching him, to get to the small jar of grease on the bedside table. Erik had volunteered it, since he knew Vaseline could dry up and become uncomfortable. The strategist paused for a moment there, mouth pressed to Erik’s ear. “I’m a quick study.” 

He was awkward at first, though, more concerned about hurting Erik than he rightfully should have—slow and careful, attentive. It was endearing in a way, but Erik was ready, had been ready for months for this to happen. 

“ _Verdammt_ ,” he growled, tangling his fingers in Charles’ damp hair, too tightly. “I’m ready, _just do it_.”

“I don’t want to—“

“I’ve done this before,” Erik said through gritted teeth, pulling Charles closer by sheer physical strength, since the Englishman didn’t want to go. “I know when I’m ready. I never needed much attention anyway, just— _do it_ , Charles.”

Charles pressed a swift kiss to his lips and finally slipped his fingers out, aligning them together. He took it slow, too goddamn slow for Erik’s taste, a trial for the German’s patience, but even though Erik hadn’t lied about not needing much and knowing when he was ready it had been a while and the stretch was there. He clutched at Charles’ shoulders, hidings his face against the side of Charles’. 

The Englishman stopped once he was seated fully in, shaky, breath hitching. 

“Oh,” he gasped. “Erik—oh. God. Are you—are you alright, what—“

He cut off, choking, when Erik moved up against him. He braced himself in his hands, looking down the length of Erik’s body down to where they were joined, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. It was necessary for Erik to push and urge him before he started moving, and even then it was slow and careful.

“Goddamn you,” Erik pulled Charles’ hair, closing his eyes. 

Charles chuckled, a strange, alien sound on his lips that was completely filthy and made Erik open his eyes, dazed. 

“Rather bossy, aren’t we, darling,” Charles said quietly, and suddenly—a roll of his hips, a sharp thrust that made Erik see stars. He seemed to be getting with the program, now he knew that he wouldn’t be hurting Erik. 

Erik could feel it coiling at the pit of his stomach, traveling quick-silver like through his veins. It had been too long a time of him imagining this would ever happen for him to even fathom lasting the night. Charles was paying attention; he shifted, seeking out an angle that he found all too easily, goddamn the bastard, and then—Erik wasn’t quite sure what was happening anymore, the sensations were overwhelming, with Charles moving inside him and pressed all along his front, bearing him down against the bed, breathing against his mouth. Every inch of them that could be in contact was. 

It was mounting quickly, now, and Erik could do very little besides throw back his head, get his arms tightly around Charles and focus on him, his breath, his skin, his cock inside him. 

“What do you need?’ Charles panted, licking Erik’s bottom lip. “What do you need? _Tell me_.”

Erik brought his head up to catch Charles’ lips, and gasp, “Touch me.”

Charles levered himself up on an elbow, disentangled his other arm to bring his hand down to Erik’s cock and stroke fast and hard, out of sync with his own thrusts because he was losing the rhythm as his own orgasm built. 

Erik came, stripes of it copious against Charles’ stomach and chest, back arching. Charles gasped and pulled out, stunned by the intensity of it, coming up to his hands and knees above Erik, watching the rapid rise and fall of his sweat-slicked chest, how his head fell to the side, lips slack, eyes closed. 

He settled on his side against Erik’s flank, stroking back his damp dark-blond hair. 

“I didn’t know it could be that lovely,” he murmured fondly, dipping down to kiss Erik’s forehead. 

Erik shifted to press closer, aiming to nuzzle against Charles’ beautiful long throat, but as he moved his thigh he felt Charles’ cock hard against it. He shifted back, puzzled, glancing down. 

“I didn’t want to presume,” Charles explained, smiling. “Besides, what you were going through seemed—intense.” 

The German grinned, and got a hand firmly around Charles’ cock. The Englishman gasped, a hand coming up to grasp Erik’s shoulder tightly. Erik started stroking, firm and slow, kissing Charles’ lips hard, biting down on the soft sweet flesh. 

It didn’t take long for Charles to come as well, falling limp on his side on the bed, breathing hard. Erik leaned over him to kiss the side of his throat, inhaling the strong scent of masculine sweat and sex, the soft vague scent of Charles himself beneath it. 

Erik indulged in a long caress, from Charles’ bare knee up his long thigh to his sweaty side and around to his chest, splaying his hand against the rapid beat of his heart. 

“Oh,” Charles melted into the mattress, humming in pleasure. “Oh, that feels exquisite.” 

Erik smiled against his cheek, “I have big hands.”

“Hm. It’s a novelty to be the smaller partner in bed.” 

Erik pulled back, grinning. “You’re not all that tall either, _liebling_.”

Charles cracked an eye open. “No pet names, my dear, especially not children’s pet names. Not after you had my cock in your mouth.” 

Erik leaned down to kiss him, long and slow and filthy. “Is that what caught your attention, Charles? What I did with my mouth?”

Charles smiled lazily, and pressed his hand against Erik’s come-streaked stomach. “I didn’t hear you complaining. Oh—let me clean this up.”

“No, that’s alright, I’ll do it.”

“No,” Charles sat up, smoothing Erik’s hair back fondly. “I’ll do it. Besides… Erik—we can’t stay in bed together.” 

Erik froze. 

“No, shh, darling,” Charles leaned down to stroke his cheek, soothing, eyes soft. “It’s not that I don’t want to, sweetheart. We can’t be caught together in bed, Erik. You know that.” 

Erik tried to make himself relax, but it sat ill with him, an uncomfortable cold knot in his stomach, sucking his chest inwards. Charles stayed, patient, stroking his cheek, even when he closed his eyes and didn’t meet his gaze. He waited until Erik could make himself relax before he left the bed to go to the bathroom. 

He cleaned himself up and brought a warm wet towel to the bed; he didn’t offer to clean Erik up, which he appreciated. It felt like a chasm had opened between them, even now when the warm afterglow of orgasm and the intimacy of sex still clung sticky like molasses to Erik’s muscles. He felt like something had snapped, a thread, a cord, a connection between them. 

He watched with eyes half-lidded as Charles got his underwear and pants on, and turned on his side when the Englishman came over to sit on the edge of the bed and face him. Charles put a hand, gentle and light, on his bare shoulder-blade. 

“Erik, you know better. I think what we did was beautiful, but that is not an opinion the rest of the world shares. I don’t dare put you in any position that might endanger you, my friend. I wish things were different, but—wishing never did anyone any good, did it?”

Erik closed his eyes and nodded. Charles stroked his hair back, leaned down to kiss his temple. Erik sighed, allowed his body to go limp under Charles’ soothing motions and gentle kisses. He smiled, somewhat ashamed. 

“I apologize.”

“No, don’t, it’s alright,” Charles smiled. “It meant something, what we just did. I do normally love to cuddle in bed—I’m a warmth monster, Moira always complained about that. I’m sorry.” 

The mention of Moira did nothing to lighten Erik’s mood, or the hint that Charles had stayed in bed with her afterwards, but he inhaled and exhaled and let it all go with his breath. Moira was gone; there was no joy in feeling bitterness for the moments of joy she had had with her lover. 

Sleepiness was settling over Erik in any case; he closed his eyes and curled closer to Charles, who hummed in approval and brought the blankets up higher to cover him. 

“Get some sleep, love,” he said warmly. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

++++

The day the war ended started soft. 

It was spring and the sun beat down harsh on the cloth of their tent, shining amber-like through the green. 

Erik woke in his cot, on his side, stretched out and tangled in his sheets. He opened his eyes to the sight of Charles, shirtless, shaving in front of the small mirror, dark hair slicked wetly back. He stared at him, eyes half-lidded, following the long line of his neck, the slope of his broad shoulders, the trim of his sharp waist. The curve at the front of his thighs. 

In the golden light Charles was heartrendingly beautiful. Sometimes it stunned Erik that he’d ever gotten to hold him at all; Charles was like one of those mythic creatures, too fine-looking to be tied to any one mortal man. 

Just then Charles turned, and his usual bland expression slid easily into a warm, fond smile. Erik didn’t move as the strategist came over to his cot and reached down to stroke a lock of dark blond hair back away from his forehead. 

“Morn, darling,” he murmured. His knuckles brushed lightly over Erik’s temple, and his eyes slid closed, and he hummed. Charles leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his right eyelid. 

Erik turned his head and stole a kiss from his lips, sweet and chaste. He hummed when Charles opened his lips and brushed his tongue over his bottom one, playful and sensual—but then Charles withdrew, smiling. 

“Rise and shine, my dear,” he said, playfully pulling the sheet away from Erik’s ribcage. “Things to do, people to see.”

“A war to win,” Erik murmured, voice rough from sleep. He dragged a hand down his face, relished the prickle of his growing beard against the skin of his hand. He’s always liked having a bit of beard; he wondered if that was something Charles would fancy. He sighed and sat up, kicking the sheets away from himself as he did, to turn and plant his feet firmly on the ground. He paused there for a moment. 

Charles was still standing very close. Close enough that Erik could reach out and touch him, wrap a hand around his thigh, inch it upwards… he closed his eyes, clenched his hands on the edge of the cot. 

They had spent one night in the town, and then returned to their posts. Since then they had been forced to keep contact to a minimum. It was killing Erik—to know Charles wanted him to touch, but would not allow it for fear of being discovered. 

Charles reached down and stroked his hair gently away from his forehead, tender and soft—and then he moved away, to grasp the wet cloth and finish rinsing his face completely. His skin was very smooth. He tucked his undershirt into his pants and slipped his jacket on, buckled his ammo belt, straightened out the lines of his uniform. 

Suddenly, he was Lt. Colonel Charles Xavier, and the intimacy between them dissolved. Erik rose from the bed and started dressing himself. 

Charles grabbed his hat and brushed it absently, watching Erik with half-lidded eyes. Erik thought perhaps he saw some desire there, as those blue eyes followed the lines of his thighs and groin to the flat flesh of his stomach, as they flicked quickly up and away from his small nipples. 

“I’ll get some breakfast started for us,” he said, lips quirking in a rueful smile when Erik very deliberately stretched his arms out over his head, feeling the shift and pull of the muscles of his torso and shoulders. Charles had called him beautiful; Erik didn’t agree, but he was not above using Charles’ tastes to lure him closer. Erik tilted his head and leaned forward only a degree, invitingly. The metal dog-tags of the British Army slapped against the skin above his breastbone. Charles’ eyes fell on them. Then he turned around, and left the tent. 

Erik went through his usual morning ritual, combing his hair, shaving fastidiously, taking special attention the lines of his English uniform so they sat perfect and elegant on his limbs. When he was done, he joined Charles by the camp table and accepted the coffee he offered, grateful. Erik would drink tea if nothing else was available, but he found it bland and tasteless. The tension that seemed to have lingered with Erik since he woke dissolved under the sunlight as he sat at Charles’ side, benefitting from his plentiful smiles as much as anyone else. 

Howlett glanced at him, much in the same way he had done since they had returned from the town. It was as though he could smell it on Erik. As soon as the opportunity had presented itself, Howlett had slammed Erik up against a tree, knife at his throat, and asked, very calmly, if he’d forced himself on Charles. The resulting argument devolved very quickly into physical blows, and was only stopped when Charles threw himself between them and found that neither was willing to risk hurting him. 

Charles had not been pleased, and had very harshly scolded them both about what he expected from soldiers of His Majesty’s Army, and how they were to behave from now on, and what would happen if that was not how they did behave. Erik had expected further words when they withdrew to their tent that night, but Charles had seemed content with having evenly distributed blame and punishment, and appeared unwilling to pry in that which he saw as not his business. 

Charles didn’t feel entitled to all of Erik’s secrets. This was only one of the many things that made Erik ache for him, and that night he’d crawled into his cot against his better judgment, and though they couldn’t afford to have sex, he’d convinced Charles to let him rub them off, slow and lazy, wet, filthy. 

The truth was he needn’t had bothered keeping them apart. Howlett had been worried that Erik was forcing Charles but once Charles leapt in front of him to protect Erik, and demanded Howlett backed off _immediately, right this bloody moment_ , he had been satisfied. Presumably he had arrived at the conclusion that Charles wasn’t being coerced into anything. 

Charles’ normal duties included thing Erik was not allowed to know, and which Charles did not offer to divulge even when they lay together in the aftermath of climax, and it meant Erik was sometimes left to his own devices while Charles had a strategic summit with someone. 

In these rare moments of solitude he joined the other soldiers and traded stories, like any man, like his birth and nationality meant nothing. To the Wildcats, they didn’t; Erik kept Charles safe, and that was all they cared about. One way or the other Charles had brought them all together and given them purpose. 

He was sitting on the ground with Piotr and his mad tangential cousin when Charles rushed back to their camp, looking flushed and alive with joy. Erik leapt to his feet, suddenly short of breath. 

“Wildcats, to me,” Charles shouted—Charles never raised his voice. Stunned and alarmed, the Wildcats crept closer until they presented a united front. Piotr slung a massive arm around Erik’s shoulders for no discernible reason other than he was standing next to him. 

Charles showed them a folded paper. 

“Germany has sued for peace,” He said, grinning, eyes bright. “The war is over.”

A moment of stunned, disoriented silence. And then—a storm of sound, yelling, hooting, people jumping, soldiers hugging. Piotr crushed Erik close, shook him, moved on to his next mate, and then Erik was—

Alone. 

Conflicted. He didn’t know what to do with himself. The war was done and he was happy for it, no more horrors, no more deaths. He could go home, to his family, in America, and live in peace. He could join his father in the clockmaker’s shop, watch his sister’s ballet practices in the afternoons, water his mother’s plants—she always forgot. 

But Deutschland has sued for peace. His homeland had surrendered, his people had bend the knee. It felt wrong, somehow, even though—Erik would never return to his home country, could never return. He’d given up that right, it was lost to him forever. Another senseless war, another defeat. Deutschland on the ground. 

Someone was touching his arm. Erik looked up and found Charles’ eyes, cornflower-blue, soft with understanding. 

“I wish I could say I’m sorry, darling,” he murmured. 

The rest of the day unfolded like a blur in Erik’s eyes. Charles was busy with the preparations of the return, arranging tiered withdrawals, methodical and ordered. He worried to return first the soldiers that had been away from home the longest, and when that classification became obsolete he turned instead to those whose families needed them most. 

Through all of this Erik stood guard and tried to help as much as he could, quickly writing down names, making careful annotations. Charles smiled at him and praised his German-like mind, ordered and methodical. Erik smiled back, uncertain of what he felt for the compliment. He didn’t know that he was German anymore. Technically, of course, he now had English citizenship. But he had no homeland anymore and his family was in America. He didn’t know what he was going to do, or where he was going to be allowed to go, after this. 

In the end, the decision was taken from his hands. A higher-up thought to make Erik a favor, to give him a gift for his services to the Crown. A courier showed up at the tent and presented him with a folded envelop. There contained were his documents, his bank-account information for the Army pension including double-back from paydays for his time as a spy, his new English passport, and an order signed by a general to have him report three days from then at the airstrip to board a plane, destination: New York. 

Erik sat down, hands trembling. 

Charles came to sit next to him on the cot, laying his hand gently on Erik’s back. The tent flaps were open, and outside the camp was a storm of activity, soldiers packing their bags, soldiers saying good-bye-and-fare-thee-well to their mates whom they had shared fox-holes with. _Write to me yeah, see you soon, don’t be a stranger_.

“I was hoping…” he started, and his voice broke. 

Charles leaned closer so their shoulders brushed. “You deserve this, Erik. As does your family. They haven’t seen you in a very long time, my friend.”

Erik turned to catch his eyes. Charles’ were calm and softly happy. Erik couldn’t get a read on him, couldn’t see what he was thinking, what he wanted him to say or do. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, feeling like the searing pain beneath his breastbone would crush him. 

Charles brought his hand up to the back of his neck and squeezed. 

“No, darling. You won’t. I will find you. But there are things that must be done before that, Erik. I think you know that.”

_I will find you._

Erik opened his mouth. 

Someone cleared his throat and Erik straightened abruptly. Howlett was looking at them form the entrance to the tent, cleverly standing where he shielded them from the rest of the camp. He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. 

“There’s a Colonel here to see you, Chuck.”

Charles nodded. He squeezed Erik’s neck one more time, and stood up and left. 

Erik sat there, crushed. Then he surged up to his feet, went blindly to step out of the tent and follow him. Maybe he could convince Charles to get the general to send him to London instead—Erik was in the British Army now, after all, so surely—

Howlett caught his arm and eased him back, firm but gentle. He glanced down at the paper Erik had in his hand, intelligent eyes kind. 

“Go to America, bub,” he said quietly. “Go home to your family.”

Erik swallowed heavily, eyes darting past him to where Charles was speaking to a Colonel, head tilted in thought, eyes intent. 

“He said he’ll find you,” Howlett murmured. Erik’s eyes snapped back to him. “I know it hurts. But wouldn’t you rather _know_?”

Erik wouldn’t. He wanted to have this now, he didn’t want to lose it, not after all this time agonizing over Charles and whether he could ever come to love him. He wanted to go to bed every morning to sheets warmed by Charles’ body, and wake up every morning with Charles’ head resting on his chest, their legs tangled. He wanted to come home to the scent of tea in the air and sit with Charles in an imaginary kitchen, together, quiet and in peace. 

He closed his eyes, swallowed again. 

Except he _did_ want to know. He wanted to know if Charles had indulged him because he would never bear hurting Erik but turning him down, however gently. He wanted to know if Charles loved him with the same sort of desperation Erik loved Charles, if he needed to be with him as much as Erik needed it. 

So he packed his bags, and got his affairs in order. At night he crawled into Charles’ cot and stretched against him, heedless of the risk of being caught, thankful that Charles didn’t turn him away but merely moved over and lay on his back and took Erik’s weight, and breathed, calm and steady, against Erik’s throat. 

Three days later Erik boarded a plane to New York, and found his family in the airport waiting for him. His father, his mother, his sister, who had grown so tall since he’d last seen her. Sweet, warm little Ruth, now a girl of twelve, beautiful and delicate like a dove. 

Erik moved to the apartment upstairs from their home, a large house with a stone-floored courtyard lined with his mother’s plants, withered and dry. Erik changed out of his uniform, went down and watered them. Sat down in a chair to the courtyard table, and when Ruth came over to sit in his laps he flattened her to his chest. And when he started weeping brokenly, she cuddled against his chest and fisted her little hands in his shirt, and said nothing. 

Sometime later that evening, his father put him to bed, and spent the night sitting in a chair next to him, as quiet as Erik himself, wiping silent tears with hands that didn’t shake. 

Early the next morning Erik woke, showered, and started living again. 

+++

Spring afternoon in America. Peace. The sound of music drifting vague, the long sweet notes of Edith Piaf’s voice braiding together with the soft sugary smell of pie from the kitchen. His sister dancing ballet on the stone floor of the living room. His mother’s low hum of delight. 

Erik was sitting in the courtyard, in a chair, his feet up on the table, long legs crossed and stretched. He was listening to the music, listening to his sister, to his mother, and writing in a small little book. 

He was writing in Hebrew, because he could, and he loved that he could. There was a cigarette between his lips. American cigarettes were shit, but Erik loved them. He loved everything about America. 

He lifted his eyes to squint at the blinding blue sky, reached up to take the cigarette between two fingers to flick the ash. Smoke drifted up and tickled his nose. He inhaled it; smoke, sugar, the perfume of his mother’s flowers in the pots by the walls. He should water them; his mother forgot, often, but she liked them lush. Erik liked doing things that made his mother happy. 

The doorbell rang. Erik’s eyes snapped to the open door to the house, muscles stiffening. Even in peace in America he could never stop fearing—he was a traitor. He’d never escape that reality, not really, no matter how much time and distance he put between himself and those actions. 

He listened. 

His sister ran to the door. Foolish, trusting girl—he kept telling her not to do that, and she kept tilting her head sadly and rubbing his hand like it was he that didn’t understand, and not her. Erik held himself completely still, and listened. Voices, too low to identify or understand. English, he thought. 

He flicked ash from his cigarette, closed his book. Listened and prepared. 

The voices were calm and low. Erik gritted his teeth. 

The door was in the wall of the courtyard that got the most light; the sun spilled through the open kitchen door, across the worn stones of the floor. A shadow moved just beyond the edge of the light, vaguely defined, unrecognizable. Erik swallowed. He was staring right at it when he came forward. 

He stopped breathing. 

Charles moved slowly into the courtyard, smiling softly, silky dark hair combed neatly to the side, cornflower eyes bluer than the sky. Erik couldn’t breathe.

He was wearing a pale blue shirt and dark slacks, casual and breathtakingly beautiful. The last time Erik had seen him, Charles had been a Lt. Colonel of His Majesty’s Army. 

Erik couldn’t breathe. 

Charles moved closer, smile widening. “Morn, darling,” he said, quiet and intimate, private. 

Like a spear to the chest. Erik felt like he was falling apart, caving in, being sucked up by a black hole inside, like his ribs had crushed his lungs. He wanted to scream and cry and crush Charles against his chest. Charles reached forward and took the cigarette from Erik’s slack fingers, and crushed it in the ashtray. Erik could have sobbed. 

His sister was in the doorway, looking at them with his mother’s pale green eyes and a sweet and delighted smile. His sister was there, and his mother, and his father was at the shop, and Charles was here. 

_Charles._

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Erik murmured. 

“I told you I’ll always find you.”

Erik swallowed. His throat was dry. 

Charles straightened, looked around idly, but his eyes went back to Erik again, warm like velvet. 

“It’s a beautiful house, Erik.” 

“Mother and Ruth decorated it.” 

Charles turned around and grinned winningly at Erik’s sister. She blushed a very becoming shade of pink. 

“And a fine job indeed, my dear.”

Ruth mumbled something at her shoes. Charles laughed lightly. She made her excuses and fled. Erik arched a brow. 

“Are you trying to win my sister over?”

Charles gave him a warm look. “Some Lehnsherrs are easier than others, I believe.”

Erik thought, _I was always easy, you always had me, you never had to try._

Charles was standing in his father’s courtyard in America under the sun. Erik’s fingertips ached with the need to reach out and touch. 

“I live in the apartment upstairs,” he said. 

Charles’ hand reached out, as if to settle on Erik’s ankle and rest there—but he hesitates, stopped, withdrew. As if he was unsure of his welcome. 

Never. _Never_. Charles would always be welcomed—would always be loved, always needed, cherished—

Erik lowered his feet, stumbled up to his full height. Charles was so short in comparison, Erik felt like he hadn’t seen him in centuries. 

“I could—show you,” he said, hesitant. 

Charles smiled. “I’d like that, I think.”

So Erik led Charles through the kitchen and living room and hall, outside, to the side of the house and up the stairs to his own door. His hands shook when he took the key to the lock—he always locked the door, always—and he fumbled. The door swung open and Erik gestured Charles inside. 

Suddenly he felt self-conscious. Ruth had helped him decorate here, too. It was simple and minimalistic, in dark blue tones and grey. Erik’s favorite color was blue. Of course it was. Ruth could tell, somehow. The apartment wasn’t the same size as the house; the distribution was different, so that the space above the house’s kitchen was an open terrace to which you got through the bedroom. 

Erik felt suddenly bare, here, in his apartment with Charles looking around. So polite, so restrained, so careful. He walked slowly, looking at things, never touching anything, curious like a cat and just as cautious. Erik followed him with his eyes, unable to look away, as he reached up and took off his flat cap. He turned it in his hands, inexplicably nervous, as if Charles’ verdict of this place he lived in meant—everything. This new life Erik had made for himself. 

Charles settled slowly into one of the chairs by the front window, pressing his hands together as he leaned forward. Erik remained standing, tense, incomprehensibly shy. He could remember the texture of Charles’ skin beneath his fingertips, the little hitches of breath, his breathless gasps, his quiet moans. The silk of his hair as it tangled in Erik’s fingers. The softness of his lips. 

But it felt like—that Charles and this one were two different Charles. This one calm and composed, not distant, not exactly, but… reserved, somehow. The disconnect was jarring. Suddenly it _hurt_. 

Charles was here but—what if he wasn’t? What if—what if he hadn’t come here to…

“I finished my major,” Charles said quietly, eyes serene. 

Erik blinked. 

“Congratulations,” he said, and then a smile broke through. “I’m glad for it. I know how much it meant to you. I’m—I’m rather proud, actually, if you’ll allow me.”

Charles smiled sweetly, “Of course, Erik. Thank you.”

Erik turned the cap in his hands again, restless, awkward. “Would you—like some tea?”

Charles’ eyebrows arched. “You have tea?”

Erik scoffed. “Of course I have tea.”

Charles gave him a steady, even look. “You hate tea.”

Erik stilled. 

“I don’t… hate it,” he offered, rather lacking in confidence. 

Charles gave him an unreadable look. “I finished my major. I finished it rather on the top of my class, if you’ll allow me the arrogance, and I found that the offers of universities to house me as a researcher in psychology were not lacking.”

He paused, eyes steady on Erik. 

“I have offers,” he repeated quietly. “But I wanted to see you first. I wanted to know—if you would still… if you’ll still have me, Erik.”

Erik felt his body going lax, and was surprised he hadn’t collapsed. 

“I wasn’t sure of my welcome,” the Englishman continued softly. “It’s been a long year, and I know a lot has changed for you. I don’t make any demands, Erik. You owe me nothing. But I come with and offer of my own, and I was wondering…”

He made a small, elegant gesture with his head, rueful, and parted his hands to show his palms. 

Erik felt dizzy. He leaned back against the wall, breathing in, eyes pinned on Charles. 

“What—what are you saying?”

Charles’ breathtaking eyes flicked down in thought, maybe in nervousness, but he brought them back up to face Erik’s gaze head-on. 

“I’m saying, Erik, that if you’ll have me, if you still want me,” he took a deep breath. “I will move here to America for you. I know things will be difficult—we’ll have to be careful, very careful, but we can have this. I truly believe we can. I—I want to have this, Erik.”

Erik’ cap dropped from his nerveless fingers. Two strides forward and he was falling to his knees before Charles, and he was kissing him, desperate and wild, pushing him back against the back of the chair and slotting himself between his spread knees. Charles moaned, his hands coming up to Erik’s neck, lips parting eagerly. 

Erik straightened, slipped his arms around Charles and crushed him close so they were pressed flushed together, glued from lips to groin. Charles gasped, gripping his shoulder and twisting his fingers in his hair. Erik’s left hand traveled down and grasped his thigh, squeezing. In response, Charles pressed his thighs closer together against Erik’s hips, groaning. 

He gasped in Erik’s ear, “Always in such a rush.”

“I was careful the first time,” Erik replied against his neck, licking the skin right below his Adam’s apple. 

Charles laughed lightly. “Only because I asked you to, love.”

Erik pulled back only enough to stare into his eyes. 

“You told me I had you,” he murmured. 

Charles’ eyes softened. His fingers untangled from Erik’s hair to stroke it gently, instead. 

“Yes, I did. And you do.”

Erik swallowed. “There wasn’t a moment of our acquaintance I didn’t want you.”

Charles leaned forward to kiss his cheek tenderly. “Well, then, love,” he murmured. A playful smirk. “have at it.”

Erik got up, dragged Charles up with him and led him to his bedroom. Charles looked around curiously, but not for long—Erik was pushing him down on the bed, straddling him. This time, he really did take all the time in the world to undress him, no hurry. He spread Charles out on his bed, slowly, lazily, bared him down to skin and then watched in fascination as Charles bared himself the rest of the way, opened his eyes and parted his lips to show him his heart, that bright pulsing star of kindness and patience that was _Charles_. 

Edith Piaf drifted through the open windows of the terrace, and Erik and Charles made love in Erik’s bed, pressed together so close they could barely move, skin to skin, breathing into each other’s lungs only when they broke apart from the kisses they never got enough of. Erik kissed the scar on Charles’ temple, licked the one on his brow, dropped kisses on his eyelids when he closed his eyes. 

Erik crushed Charles to him, kept him so close their chests pressed each other when they drew in air, musky and hot with sex, heavy with muffled moans and gasps. Charles’ hands moved, restless, slipping in Erik’s sweat-slicked shoulders, the long curving line of his back, his biceps, his neck. He kissed Erik until his lips were red as blood, and then kept kissing him, gasping, breathless. 

They stayed like that for a long time, resting, pressed together close as one. Finally Erik slipped to the side, to lie on his back, and gathered Charles close so his head was resting in the pillow next to his, and they lay forehead against forehead. 

Charles smiled, eyes closed. 

“ _Quand il me prend dans ses bras, Il me parle tout bas, Je vois la vie en rose,_ ” he sung quietly, sweetly. 

Erik closed his eyes and hummed the melody.


End file.
